CHAPTER VIII
NEIGHBORS AND WASPS
And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine inwhich the lightkeeper and his helper each played his appointed part.All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual andwithout reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other'spresence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics, and expressed theirmutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular assistantwas appointed or seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth andhis friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy conversation overthe wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, therewas a tacit understanding that, by the first of September, if the youngman was sufficiently "broken in," the position vacated by Ezra Payneshould be his--if he still wanted it.
"You may change your mind by that time," observed Seth. "This ain't noplace for a chap with your trainin', and I know it. It does well enoughfor an old derelict like me, with nobody to care a hang whether he livesor dies, but you're different. And even for me the lonesomeness of itdrives me 'most crazy sometimes. I've noticed you've been havin' bluestreaks more often than when you first came. I cal'late that by fallyou'll be headin' somewheres else, Mr. 'John Brown,'" with significantemphasis upon the name.
Brown stoutly denied being "bluer" than usual, and his superior did notpress the point. Seth busied himself in his spare time with the work onthe Daisy M. and with his occasional trips behind Joshua to the village.Brown might have made some of these trips, but he did not care to.Solitude and seclusion he still desired, and there were more of thesethan anything else at the Twin-Lights.
The lightkeeper experimented with no more dogs, but he had evidently notforgotten the lifesaving man's warning concerning possible thieves, forhe purchased a big spring-lock in Eastboro and attached it to the doorof the boathouse on the little wharf. The lock was, at first, a gooddeal more of a nuisance than an advantage, for the key was always beingforgotten or mislaid, and, on one occasion, the door blew shut withAtkins inside the building, and he pounded and shrieked for ten minutesbefore his helper heard him and descended to the rescue.
June crawled by, and July came. Crawled is the proper word, for JohnBrown had never known days so long or weeks so unending as those of thatearly summer. The monotony was almost never broken, and he began to findit deadly. He invented new duties about the lights and added swimmingand walks up and down the beach to his limited list of recreations.
The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place,and the boathouse was his dressing room, though the fragrance of theancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. Acheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, byrequest, in Eastboro. Seth bought the suit under protest, for he scoffedopenly at his helper's daily bath.
"I should think," the lightkeeper declared over and over again, "thatyou'd had salt water soak enough to last you for one spell; a fellerthat come as nigh drownin' as you done!"
Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday nightfurnished him with baths sufficient.
He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: "Thecove's all right," he said, "but you want to look out and not try toswim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end ofthe wharf, where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in orit's dead high water, the current's strong there. On the ebb it'll snakeyou out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. Thecove's all right and good and safe; but keep away from the narrer partof the crick."
Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid inshaking off depression; but, in spite of his denials and his attempts atappearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was farfrom that happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of allpeople of his own station in life--his former station. Atkins was afine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . and when oneis lonely, one thinks of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets.Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions possible.
The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his yearsof experience in his present situation, was odd. He explained hisloneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed thepainting chaps.
"What painting chaps?" asked Brown.
"Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to thecottage--what you call the bungalow--across the cove there, the ones Itold you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kindof liked to have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July,and they not here to hail me and come over to borrow stuff. And they wasforever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper.I most wish they hadn't gone to Europe. I cal'late you'd have liked 'em,too."
"Perhaps," said the helper, doubtfully.
"Oh, you would; no perhaps about it. It don't seem right to see thebungalow all shuttered up and deserted this time of year. You'd haveliked to meet them young painters; they was your kind."
"Yes, I know. Perhaps that's why I shouldn't like to meet them."
"Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain'tlikely they'd know you; they hailed from Boston, not New York."
"How did you know I came from New York? I didn't tell you that."
"No, you didn't, that's a fact. But, you said you left the city whereyou lived and came to Boston, so I sort of guessed New York. But that'sall right; I don't know and I don't care. Names and places you and memight just as well not tell, even to each other. If we don't tell them,we can answer 'don't know' to questions and tell the truth; hey?"
One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweepingdone, was busy in the light-room at the top of the right hand tower,polishing the brass of the lantern. The curtains were drawn on thelandward side, and those toward the sea open. Seth, having finished hisnight watching and breakfast, was audibly asleep in the house. Brownrubbed and polished leisurely, his thoughts far away, and a frown on hisface. For the thousandth time that week he decided that he was a loaferand a vagabond, and that it would have been much better for himself,and creation generally, if he had never risen after the plunge over thesteamer's rail.
He pulled the cloth cover over the glittering lantern and descended theiron stair to the ground floor. When he emerged into the open air, heheard a sound which made him start and listen. The sound was the distantrattle of wheels from the direction of the village. Was another "picnic"coming? He walked briskly to the corner of the house and peered down thewinding road. A carriage was in sight certainly, but it was going, notcoming. He watched it move further away each moment. Someone--not thegrocer or a tradesman--was driving to the village. But where had hebeen, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleep--he could hear him.
The driver of the carriage, whoever he was, had not visited the lights.And, as Atkins had said, there was nowhere else to go on that road.Brown, puzzled, looked about him, at the sea, the lights, the house,the creek, the cove, the bluff on the other side of the cove, thebungalow--ah! the bungalow!
For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutterswere down. The carriage had brought some person or persons to thebungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of theartists from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decidedto summer at Eastboro after all. His frown deepened.
Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream,a feminine scream. The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears.Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron inher hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, andwaved the apron like a flag.
"Hi!" she screamed. "Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do pleasecome here quick and help us!"
There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He racedthrough the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call. As heran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had saidthat the artists
did their own housekeeping.
"Hurry up!" shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango infront of the bungalow. "Come ON!"
To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal oftime. However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no otherway--excepting by boat--to reach the cottage. But the tide was out, andthe narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove withthe ocean, was but knee deep. Through the water splashed the substituteassistant and clambered up the bank beyond.
"Quick!" screamed the woman. "They'll eat us alive!"
"Who? What?" panted Brown.
"Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thingon earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop to talk! Go IN!"
She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the littlecottage. From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture andsharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But theymust be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door andentered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by thestout woman. Then he gasped in astonishment.
The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in theupper corner of the room. But they were not the astonishing part of thepicture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair andeyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and awet towel in her right hand. She was skipping lightly about the room,slapping frantically at the humming insects.
"Mrs. Bascom," she panted, "don't stand there screaming. Get anothertowel and--"
Then she turned and saw Brown. For an instant she, too, seemedastonished. But only for an instant.
"Oh, I'm so glad you came!" she exclaimed. "Here! take this! you musthit quick and HARD."
"This" was the towel. The assistant took it mechanically. The young ladydid not wait to give further orders. She rushed out of the room and shutthe door. Brown was alone with the wasps, and they were lively company.When, at last, the battle was over, the last wasp was dead, the nest wasa crumpled gray heap over in the corner, and the assistant's brow wasornamented with four red and smarting punctures, which promised toshortly become picturesque and painful lumps. Rubbing these absentlywith one hand, and bearing the towel in the other, he opened the doorand stepped out into the adjoining room.
The two women were awaiting him. He found them standing directly infront of him as he emerged.
"Have you--have you killed them?" begged the younger of the pair.
"Be they all dead?" demanded the other.
Brown nodded solemnly. "I guess so," he said. "They seem to be."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried the dark haired girl. "I'm--we--are so muchobliged to you."
"If there's any critters on earth," declared the stout woman, "that Ican't stand, it's wasps and hornets and such. Mice, I don't mind--"
"I do," interrupted her companion with emphasis.
"But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I waspretty nigh knocked over--and," she added, "it takes consider'ble to dothat to ME."
The assistant looked at her. "Yes," he said, absently, "I should thinkit might. That is, I mean--I--I beg your pardon."
He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burstinto a peal of laughter, in which the stout woman joined. The laugh wasso infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile.
"I apologize," he stammered. "I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded.I'm not responsible mentally--yet--I guess."
"I don't wonder." It was the stout woman who answered. The girl hadturned away and was looking out the window; her shoulders shook. "Ishouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, andshut up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore anddon't know from Adam! You needn't apologize. I'd forgive you if yousaid somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'msensitive about my weight, thank goodness."
"And we ARE so much obliged to you." The girl was facing him once more,and she was serious, though the corners of her mouth still twitched."The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous," she said, "but Mrs. Bascomwas frightened and so was I--when I had time to realize it. Thank youagain."
"You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all."
The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a littleof its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absentfrom duty quite long enough.
"Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped," observed the stoutwoman. "And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighborsfor a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name'sBascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham."
The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it.
"Graham?" he repeated. "Where?" Then, remembering a portion of what Sethhad told him, he added, "I see! the--the artist?"
"My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own thisbungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for afew weeks--Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun."
Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting thepair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiositywould not permit him to escape so easily.
"I thought," she said, "when I see you standin' over there by thelights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper--Iknew you wa'n't him--but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only avisitor, Mister--Mister--?"
"Brown."
"Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?"
"I am the assistant keeper at present. Yes."
"You don't say!" Mrs. Bascom looked surprised. So, too, did Miss Graham."You don't look like a lighthouse keeper," continued the former. "Oh, Idon't mean your clothes!" noticing the young man's embarrassed glance athis wet and far from immaculate garments. "I mean the way you talk andact. You ain't been here long, have you?"
"No."
"Just come this summer?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. You ain't a Cape Codder?"
"No."
"I was sure you wa'n't. Where DO you come from?"
Brown hesitated. Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to endthe inquisition.
"Mr. Brown can't stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom," she said. "I'msure he wants to get back to his work. Good morning, Mr. Brown. No doubtwe shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight. Callagain--do. I solemnly promise that you shall have to fight no morewasps."
"Say!" The stout woman took a step forward. "Speakin' of wasps . . .stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won't you. What's them lumps on yourforehead? Why, I do believe you've been bit. You have, sure and sartin!"
Miss Graham was very much concerned. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed; "I hopenot. Let me see."
"No, indeed!" The assistant was on the step by this time and movingrapidly. "Nothing at all. No consequence. Good morning."
He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place.As he splashed through, the voice of the housekeeper reached his ears.
"Cold mud's the best thing," she screamed. "Put it on thick. It takesout the smart. Good and thick, mind!"
For the next hour or two the lightkeeper's helper moved about hishousehold tasks in a curious frame of mind. He was thoroughly angry--orthought he was--and very much disturbed. Neighbors of any kind werelikely to be a confounded nuisance, but two women! Heavens! And thestout woman was sure to be running in for calls and to borrow things. Asfor the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to seeanother girl, nice or otherwise. Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair,but what of it? Oh, hang the luck! Just here he banged his swollenforehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity.
Seth Atkins was profane, also, when he heard the news. Brown saidnothing until his superior discovered with his own eyes that thebungalow was open. Then, in answer to the lightkeeper's questions, camethe disclosure of the truth.
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"Women!" roared Seth. "You say there's two WOMEN goin' to live there? ByJudas! I don't believe it!"
"Go and see for yourself, then," was the brusque answer.
"I sha'n't, neither. Who told you?"
"They did."
"They DID? Was you there?"
"Yes."
"What for? I thought you swore never to go nigh a woman again."
"I did, but--well, it wasn't my fault. I--"
"Yes? Go on."
"I went because I couldn't help myself. Went to help some one else, infact. I expected to find Graham and that other artist. But--"
"Well, go ON."
"I was stung," said Mr. Brown, gloomily, and rubbed his forehead.
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